The Mines of Waard by C.B. Leonard Antique collectors abound, but few are lucky enough to find the once in a life-time piece that will guarantee financial freedom. But what price is one willing to pay for that freedom after all? Tucked in the back hills, hidden from life, a dark secret seethes and propagates, waiting for the time it will be set free to smother the world.

The narrow, rutted dirt road was nowhere to be found in the pages of Ryan’s battered road atlas. Easing the Subaru to a squeaking halt, he stared out at the signpost, then again at the map spread over his knees. He’d almost missed seeing the turnoff; evergreens shadowed the dirt track, gathering close to the edge of the road in a dense wall. Their sharp scent drifted through the car’s open windows.
    "Lys, the sign says there’s a town that way."
    Green eyes gazed briefly up from a sleek, half-opened laptop crouched on equally well-formed legs. Alyssa’s fingers never stopped moving over the keyboard, but a musical, questioning noise emerged from her throat.
    "It’s not on the map. Look, there’s Jimtown, then the next closest is Nedville, but that’s miles further on. There’s no place named...Waard on here at all." He laughed. "Must be too small to rate a dot. It’s bound to have a country store or second-hand shop; maybe we can scare up something."
    Alyssa mumbled noncommittally. Ryan’s hobby was ‘yard-sailing,’ visits to junkshops, flea markets, swap meets and the like. He searched for antiques and collectibles of all kinds, sifting the velvet Elvises and plaster Madonnas for first editions, period furniture, baseball cards, Hot Wheels cars, whatever was hot on the collectibles market. His all-time score was a rusted cavalry sword from the Civil War; a thirty-dollar purchase from an estate sale in Virginia, he’d later had it appraised at an even thousand. Ryan’s antique radar was buzzing now.
    "Look, you’re doing a piece on Rocky Mountain getaways, right? So let’s take in some of the local rustic flavor." As he spoke, Ryan spun the wagon around and down the ill-marked side road. A light cloud of dust plumed out behind as they dipped and climbed over ridge and gully. As the road started into a series of switchbacks, he noticed a vehicle closing in his rear-view, a motorcycle. The driver waved one arm vigorously. Ryan slowed, then pulled over onto the shoulder, and the motorcycle purred up behind them in a cloud of dust. Lys looked up briefly from her laptop, unconcerned.
    "That guy was signaling me," he explained. "Maybe mechanical trouble." The words seemed idiotic; that engine behind them sounded fit as a rhinoceros. Before Ryan could step out of the car, a leather-clad figure loomed at his window.
    "Afternoon. You folks headed for Jimtown? Missed the turn back there." The polite drawl was at odds with the man’s outlandish appearance—cap and goggles and a creased leather duster that looked like it might have seen action in a world war. His pointing gesture was accentuated by a flourish of red dust from the hairs of his broad mustache.
    Ryan stared for a moment. "No," he replied evenly, "actually, we saw the sign for Waard at the turnoff and decided to take this road."
    The man sighed and pushed the goggles up onto his brow. "Ah. Well, you see, that may not be such a good idea." His eyes flickered over them, taking in their clothes, the car. "Waard is a mining town; folks there usually aren’t receptive to strangers or tourists. You’d find Jimtown more hospitable." He held out a gloved hand, which Ryan shook briefly. "I’m Standish Pod, the Sheriff of Jimtown. Call me Stan." He pulled back a fold of his coat to display a silver star pinned against the leather. Ryan stared. It looked genuine.
    "A couple from Connecticut passed through Waard last summer," the Sheriff went on amiably. "Some joker filled their BMW convertible with manure while they were out having a picnic in a field."
    He had both their attentions now. Lys looked up from the laptop.
    "Is it safe?" she asked softly.
    The Sheriff hesitated, his eyes avoiding her creamed-coffee skin. "Yes, ma’am, it’s safe. But mining’s a poor living. The people...they’re mean-spirited, that’s all. There’s beautiful hikes from the town—an alpine trail with rock formations and a view of the glaciers. But the road up to Waard is usually pretty bad."
    "The Subaru has four wheel drive," Ryan broke in.
    Stan looked surprised. "Really? That’s good," he said. "Snow stays on the Upper Shelf through summer. And don’t look for any bed-and-breakfasts in Waard—drive to Jimtown if you need a place to stay the night." He nodded politely. "You folks have a nice time, then."
    They stared bemusedly as the Sheriff remounted his bike and went chugging away down the mountain.
    "That was unusual," Lys said, deadpan.
    "You mean he was."
    Ryan put the Subaru in gear. As Sheriff Stan had predicted, they soon had cause to thank the car’s drive-train; the twisting road butted up against the mountain on one side and thin air on the other, often with no guardrail. The air was warm, but north-facing sections of road had patches of ice and snow. It was an hour before they crested a ridge to see a scattering of ramshackle homes spread out over a cleft in the hills below.
    The town of Waard was everything the Sheriff had led them to expect. It consisted of a single main street, bordered by two rows of dilapidated homes. Other residences were strewn piecemeal over the nearby meadows, where farm equipment stood rusting forlornly. Late-model Fords squatted silently in driveways. Towards the end of the street stood a rambling, peaked structure that looked like it might be a church.
    Ryan’s mouth hung open. He flapped a hand at the brick building next to a small stream, where a water wheel rotated slowly.
    "That mill’s easily a hundred years old. It’s still operating."
    "Don’t point, it’s not polite," said Lys serenely, waving to a man in tobacco-stained overalls leading a mule-cart. At her wave, the man scowled and pulled a shapeless hat down over his face.
    "Friendly," Ryan commented.
    "We were warned."
    The words had an ominous ring, and Ryan tried to cheer himself by imagining what sort of historical treasures might be hidden in the attics of these aging homes. The things he imagined weren’t so nice after all, and he pushed the thought of attics from his mind.
    He parked before a storefront with a faded sign declaring the place to be an assay office. The stately, if aged, building stood slightly apart from its more slovenly neighbors. Flyspecked blinds hid the interior, but the shop had an aura of habitation that prompted Ryan to knock at the frosted glass.
    Just as he’d begun to assume his impression was mistaken, the door popped open, and the space between jamb and frame was filled by a seamed countenance spotted with bristly tufts of coarse white hair. Piercing eyes peered out from under lofty, arching brows.
    "Good day." stated the apparition, making it more of a pronunciation than a greeting. He caught sight of Lys’ smiling face and his own softened. "Miss."
    "Hello," she said cautiously, introducing herself and Ryan by their first names. "You have a lovely town. Can you tell us the way to the hiking trail?"
    An indefinable expression flickered across the man’s features, and then the wrinkles in his face drew downward in a slight frown. "The ridge trail is washed out." Drawing the door back, the old man stepped tentatively out onto the porch. "I’m Randolph Spohr." Ryan caught a glimpse of the shop’s interior; a scrollwork desk and chair lurking decrepitly in the shadows, shelves lined with obscure devices. A smell like the pages of molding books puffed out as the proprietor shut the door and stood before them. He nodded to Lys, and offered Ryan a hand. His grip was rubbery but strong.
    "Happens late every spring," the old man continued. He did not release Ryan’s hand. Under his worn suit, a striped white shirt and suspenders were tucked into black, baggy trousers that sagged over a pair of creased leather shoes. Spohr smiled slightly, showing a crescent sliver of white dentures over the stump of a tongue stained almost black. Ryan stared, nearly falling over backwards as the man at last let go his hand.
    "Snowmelt and rain washes out the path. You can still go far enough to see the Divide, though." His arm lifted, pointing past the large building Ryan had noted earlier. "Trail is up the street, a dirt path to the left.
    There’s not much else to see in town—no shops, only a feed store."
    "What about the church?" Ryan asked, indicating the steepled structure.
    Spohr nodded. "Yes, the church. New Advent Church of Waard. Also the Lodgehouse and school. Built when the mine was booming. If you want to look inside, that’s fine—I’m also the Pastor here."
    Ryan looked again at the painted sign on the storefront. "And the assayist?"
    "Assayer," corrected Spohr. "I was, though there’s little need for such work since the mine played out. We’re filling the shafts in, now, working tailings for leftover ore. It’s closed to the public, though—old mines are dangerous places."
    "I see," said Ryan uncomfortably. The Pastor’s voice was smooth and sure, without the slightest hint of menace, but there was something about his manner that made Ryan’s fingertips prickle. "We’ll take that hike now, I guess. Lys?"
    "Why don’t we go see the church first?"
    "All right." Ryan didn’t relish the thought of further conversation with the Pastor, but Lys had a degree in Comparative Religions, and would probably insist.
    "You may leave the car here," offered Spohr.
    They set off for the end of the street. On the far left loomed the silhouette of the church, its gambrel roof thick with the decorative curls and flourishes typical of the 1800’s. A peaked steeple swept down into the rows of stained glass windows along the walls, their colors muted and dark from the outside. The imposing double entranceway had a smaller door cut into the bottom.
    "The mine must have been booming," commented Lys. "Look at all that stained glass."
    "At the time of construction, Pickman’s Folly, as they called it, was producing piles of silver ingots every week." Spohr turned to the arching entry, unlocking the warding door at its base. He pulled this back on oiled hinges and led them inside.
    The church’s cavernous interior was cool and shadowy. Arching supports were lost in the timbers of the darkened ceiling. The area just inside was a confusion of ancient pupil’s desks, rows of shelves and stacked chairs. Past these, mobile pews ranged across the hardwood floor, leaving an aisle up to the pulpit. Ryan noted idly that there was no crucifix or religious ornamentation on the wall behind the rostrum, though a pair of bare hooks stuck out from the paneling. Spohr noticed his inquiring gaze.
    "We rotate the decorations according to need: church, school, or Lodge Meeting," he explained. "Tonight’s the latter."
    Ryan said nothing; he was looking up at the stained glass.
    "They are very old," Spohr spoke up. "Salvaged from a church in Germany...such work can’t be had these days, at any price."
    Ryan thought that this might be for the best. The windows were indeed spectacular, if somewhat unrestrained in their choice of subject matter. He had never seen a Christ pictured in quite that manner, or imagined such a lurid interpretation of the St. George mythology. His eyes refused to look twice at the panel depicting the torments of hell. The falling afternoon sun was a red blood burst behind the mosaic glass.
    "They’re...unique." It was all he could say. Lys stared, wordless. She walked toward the altar, moving like a person just arrived at the scene of an accident. Spohr followed quietly behind.
    "I’ll just wait here," Ryan said faintly. Lys was probably fascinated, but he disliked the sort of blood-fetishism that these obscure Christian sects seemed to relish so… gory, bleeding crucifixes and the like. They used this place as a school? He shuddered and turned his attention to the clutter of furniture by the entrance.
    It was then that he saw it, squatting over in one corner, half-hidden behind rows of shelves, the black, crackled finish dull with dust. He squinted, slowly taking in the dual fan-shaped decorations, drawers with their scalloped borders, the gracefully arching legs. Ryan’s heart clenched. He looked back over his shoulder to where Lys and Spohr stood near the far end of the church. Their attention was locked on the rosette window in the far wall. He looked again at the chest of drawers standing against the wall. More features became clear as he stepped hastily closer; carved figures of angels and devils gamboling along the top, inlay along the lower edges—the clumsy faux-mahogany finish obscured most of the fine detail.
    Impossible… yet there it was, right in front of him. Ryan’s mind raced as he tried to recall every scrap of information he knew about antique furnishings. Drifting closer through the huddled desks, he kept one eye on Lys and Spohr. Then, in a flash, he went to his knees, vainly searching the underside of the cabinet for a stamp or scrap of paper. It was too dark to see, and his fingers felt only the smooth grain of wood. He pulled himself upright just in time to see Lys and the Pastor turn and look back in his direction. Waving slightly, Ryan pretended to be minutely interested in the ceiling beams.
    When they turned back to the glass, he stepped forward and drew out a drawer from the lower left-hand side, clearing his throat to cover the sound of wood scraping wood. Fortunately the drawer was empty, and he transferred it easily to a nearby desk. Perching on the attached chair, he wiped ostentatiously at his nose. This performance went unnoticed; the other two were deep in debate on the other side of the room.
    Holding the drawer in place with one hand, Ryan’s fingertips probed the rear panel, running over the dovetails, pulling up along the rear edge. The Europeans had been mad for secret panels and hidey-holes… he tugged harder, then at last felt the wood give way, sliding upward on hidden grooves to reveal the drawer’s false bottom. Sandwiched into the in-between space was a sheaf of papers.
    Heart thundering in his ears, Ryan carefully tugged at the parchment with pincered fingers, trying to work it free. He hadn’t really expected to find anything inside, and he grew frantic as he saw Lys and the Pastor of Waard working their way back towards him down the opposite line of windows. Keeping one eye glued to their progress, his nails scrabbled at the papers. A sliver of wood drove into the flesh of his thumb. Ryan grunted, but kept trying. His nail dug in, and the papers slid out an inch or so. Kneeling, he grasped the protruding edges and pulled firmly. There was a faint tearing, and the bundle slipped out into his hand.
    In seconds, Lys and the Pastor would be right on top of him. There was no time to replace the secret panel; silently snatching up the drawer, Ryan levered it back into place with only a squeak. He was kneeling on the floor, just finished stuffing the folded stack of parchment into his pants, when he looked up to see the Pastor standing nearly over him. Ryan stood, a little uncertainly.
    "Darn shoelaces," he offered.
    Spohr stared blankly.
    "Ready for that hike, Lys?" Ryan asked with false brightness. "The church is very interesting, Pastor. Thanks for the tour." The old man stepped aside and watched Ryan with hooded eyes. "Certainly." He saw them out.
    Late afternoon cloaked Waard in a hazy mantle of sunlight. They marched along the road in the direction Spohr had indicated.
    "What was up back there?" asked Lys.
    "I’ll tell you in a few minutes," Ryan replied. "What did mossy tooth have to say?"
    "That proselytizer! Gave me the whole New Advent conversion line—and it’s odd, believe me." Her tone was light, but Ryan sensed real discomfort.
    There was no trailhead marker. The small footpath cut off the main road and snaked away up into the surrounding hills. Lys led the way, following the sagging fencerows, stepping lightly over trickling rivulets of water that crossed the path. Soon they began climbing, rising steadily above the town. Lys pointed out an actual sod house, set out on the edge of a distant field. The bundle of paper stuffed into Ryan’s pants crackled as he walked.
    "This place is too weird." he laughed giddily. "Straight out of the dark ages. And that guy—Spohr!" He affected his best Lugosi. "Velcome to Vaard, my young friends… but bevare! The mines can be… treacherous."
    That broke them both up.
    The trail leveled as they gained altitude, nearing tree line. At the top of the next switchback, the path opened out into a rocky clearing. Panting, they leaned against the tumbled stones, sucking in the thin air. They stood on the exposed flank of a sloping hill that formed one side of the valley containing Waard. Beyond this boulder-strewn promontory, the path wound higher up the side of the steep ridge, then ended suddenly, its thin ribbon falling away into empty space. An entire section was simply gone, leaving a wide gap over the near-vertical drop.
    "The Pastor wasn’t kidding about that wash-out." Ryan inspected the cliff side, then gazed west over the partial view of the Continental Divide. Stretching away north and south of their position lay the Rocky Mountains, an arc of snow-topped peaks, jagged glaciers and valleys marching across the land as far as the eye could see. Beyond the western slope, the sun flared through lowering clouds, washing the mountaintops in shades of reddish gold. The massive scale of the soaring peaks gave the view an air of awful solemnity.
    They wandered over the clearing, drinking in the sight a bit at a time. Ryan was considering how to best explain the significance of what he’d seen in the church when Lys broke his chain of thought.
    "Look at this."
    The curiosity in her voice drew him over to the very edge of the rocky scarp, where she knelt in the cleft between two leaning stones that formed a sort of archway. Leaning closer, Ryan saw something set down into the rock—a circular relief map of the nearby mountain range. The sculpted bronze was neatly inscribed with the names of peaks, and a row of characters ran around its outside edge.
    "Cool." He pointed. "See? Compass heading with direction, declination…"
    "The names are awfully strange," said Lys. "Altrai… Kith, Leg… some foreign language?"
    "I don’t think so." Ryan squatted next to her and examined the plate’s surface. His finger traced the writing along the edge. " Dated 1856. ‘From the folk of Waard… to He That Cometh…’ Odd. Still, they are the religious type."
    Lys shivered. "Creepy."
    Her reaction surprised him slightly, perhaps because he’d been thinking something similar himself, but didn’t want to admit it. "There’s nothing creepy about a town of old Adventist miners," Ryan countered.
    "Damned if there ain’t," retorted Lys. "This place is spookier than a room full of mummies."
    Ryan sighed and stood up. He stood no chance of winning an argument with Alyssa. She eyed him speculatively. "All right, out with it. What are you so jumpy about?"
    He leaned back against the rocks. "Did you notice the chest of drawers over in the far corner of the church entrance?"
    "That hideous black thing?"
    "Mm. Seventeenth century. Probably German, like the stained glass."
    "But someone painted it black."
    "No, that’s the original finish," Ryan explained. "Back then, fake-mahogany veneer was all the rage."
    "It looks terrible!"
    "Lys, it may be almost four hundred years old, and there’s hardly a scratch on it! With antique furniture, unsullied purity of original condition is a collector’s Grail—that hideous black thing, as you call it, could be worth well over a quarter million dollars."
    She absorbed this. "Are you sure? Remember that first-edition hymnal."
    "That was different," he sputtered. "That Methodist parasite wouldn’t sell it to me out of spite! And I left a fifty in the collection box," he added.
    "Absolved," said Lys, with a touch of irony. "But it turned out to be worthless."
    "Lys, I’m sure of this one! Last year, Sotheby’s listed a piece like it, a 17th century cabinet—it went for $200,000 at auction. The one in the church is in considerably better condition." He wanted to tell her about the papers he’d stolen, but was afraid of her reaction.
    Lys squinted at him. "You’re sure."
    "Sure enough to sell everything I own to buy it."
    "What if it’s not for sale?"
    "Oh, I think the sight of a few crisp hundred dollar bills will persuade the good Pastor."
    Lys sighed. "Okay, I’m behind you. Use the money we brought, see if you can buy the thing. I believe. But I don’t want to see the Pastor again," she added quietly. "That man scares me."
    Ryan was surprised that she’d given in so easily. "You can wait in the car, hon. The guy’s just a religious nut. He’s harmless." He knew as he spoke the words that it was somehow not the entire truth.
    As they wandered back toward the trail, Ryan’s peripheral vision caught something he’d missed before. A second look confirmed his impression; the randomly strewn boulders were not quite random—they formed a sort of irregular circle around a low, hollowed stone. This arrangement had not been so obvious before, but now it fairly leaped at him. He remarked of it to Lys, who stared carefully at the immobile gray stones.
    "Indians could have done it," she concluded. "They’re called dolmens, these stone rings or archways—all over the place in England, some in America, too."
    Ryan recalled the Sheriff Pod’s comment about unusual rock formations in the area.
    "Come on," he said. "The sun is setting."
    Sunset had turned to a soft twilight by the time they reached the road outside town. Squares of yellow shone from cabin windows, illuminating the main thoroughfare. Hands linked, Ryan and Alyssa walked past the church towards their car.
    The people of Waard were waiting for them. Clustered on their porches and doorsteps, they stood silent, motionless. Ryan felt Lys’ fingers clench as she stared back and forth. At that moment, as if moved simultaneously by some internal pulse, the way a murder of crows will leap off a telegraph wire all at once, the townspeople turned and looked directly at the two of them. Then, all at once, their hundred mouths opened wide, and from the openings, thick, root like tendrils extended, undulating gently like questing fingers.
    Lys was tugging frantically at his arm, but Ryan stood rooted to the spot, staring as the people’s faces stretched open around mouths filled by writhing, slick-black horrors. When the nightmarish figures began shuffling forward, he broke, and letting go of Lys’ hand, turned to run.
    Pastor Spohr was standing behind them. One of his hands flew out and caught hold of Ryan’s left bicep, while the other closed around Lys’ wrist. The old man’s strength was inhuman; Spohr shook Ryan’s body like a rag-doll, snapping his head back and forth, then lifted him effortlessly into the air. Lys kicked futilely at the Pastor’s columnar legs. His wrinkled lips opened wide, and a thick, twisting appendage snaked out from between them.
    "Now, boy," The Pastor spoke around the thing coming out of his mouth as easily as if it were a stalk of grass. "Taste His Rapture."
    The tendril lashed wetly across Ryan’s face, slipping past his lips and darting under his tongue. A taste of rotting meat blossomed in his mouth. Spohr’s released his grip, and Ryan fell, gagging and clutching at his face and lips, which burned with an acid foulness. Distantly, he could hear Lys screaming. The burning rose through his sinuses in a choking wave, and sight seemed to hurtle away from him into a limitless abyss. Arabesques of grotesque colors exploded across his retina in dizzying patterns. Ryan could sense people close by, but could not see them.
    Grasping hands seized his limbs. He screamed and fought, but his captors held him stolidly. Heavy, methodical punches began to fall on his unprotected body, and Ryan flailed, gasping for breath. His optic nerve flashed dazzling white as a blow connected with his forehead, and then consciousness funneled down into a swirling chaos of shrieking noise and impossible colors.

Ryan awoke to darkness, jostling movement, and the sound of an engine. He seemed to approach himself from a tremendous depth, rising back upward as if from the dark ocean of his own unconscious mind. Beneath his side were rough planks cushioned by hay. His arms were secured behind his back, and something that felt like a burlap bag was pulled tight across his face. There was an overpowering smell of onions. His head rang like a carefully struck bell.
    Remaining still took an effort; he wanted to kick and shout, but realized that it would be of little use. Instead he strained his ears, trying to relax and breathe regularly as his mind raced. What had happened? Images flooded back; the attack, Pastor Spohr, with a thing like a muscular worm where his tongue should be… Ryan felt his heart grow cold. They had Alyssa.
    He couldn’t stop himself; he began thrashing at his bonds in helpless rage. The blow came rapidly and without warning, a heavy weight like a club, glancing off the side of his head and thumping on the planks. Dazed, he slumped in the straw, feeling a trickle of blood on one cheek.
    Ryan was still conscious, but lay bonelessly, unwilling to risk another beating. He was being taken somewhere in a truck. Surely they meant to be rid of him.
    The noise of the engine dropped an octave as the vehicle started up a steep grade. They seemed to reach the summit of a hill, and there was a shout from the front. He heard the rear gate fall open, and the sound of someone climbing down. The driver was bellowing from the cab; "…the gate, dammit…"
    The fact that Ryan had a bag over his head didn’t stop him for a second—as the footsteps of his escort went around the side of the truck, he was moving, rolling over the bed to the gate. He actually managed to swing himself down to a standing position, and then, without pause, he was away, stumbling frantically down the rutted roadbed, feet striking out for the sandy shoulder. After making perhaps five yards in this fashion, his legs went out from under him. He hurtled off the edge of the road and went crashing down the steep wooded slope below. Ryan heard shouts from above and behind him as he tumbled over and over, shattering branches and bouncing on the rocky ground before fetching up against the side of a tree. His body folded around the trunk, and he stopped cold, the wind knocked out of him.
    For a moment he could do no more than lie there. As he did, he realized that the fall had freed his hands. Ripping the bag away from his face, he breathed deep gulps of fresh air.
    There were no sounds of pursuit from the steep hillside above; the men were probably coming down the switchback in their truck. Gasping at the pain in his side, Ryan clawed his way to his feet and began staggering downhill through the trees. It was dark; branches slapped at his face, and he fell several times, but didn’t stop moving. At last he felt the sandy shoulder of the road beneath his feet, then its wash boarded surface. Winded, Ryan bent over his knees, scanning both directions for the truck. At that moment, headlights showed around the bend above, accompanied by the sound of an engine. The noise grew abruptly louder, and he realized that there were vehicles both above and below, trapping him. Before he could decide which way to run, the white beam of a headlight came scything around the turn below. Ryan stood frozen as Standish Pod’s motorcycle roared to a sputtering halt only a yard in front of him.
    "Get on, then," snapped the Sheriff of Jimtown. Ryan barely had time to grab hold of his leather jacket before the bike’s engine wound up and sent them spinning wildly back down the dirt road.
    Standish Pod stared at Ryan from across his dining room table, his seamed face reflected in the battered surface like a sorrowful chunk of weathered granite.
    "Look, son," he said gently, "your girlfriend will be safe for awhile. It was you they meant to kill. Maybe drop you in a mineshaft, trigger a rock fall."
    Ryan’s eyes bulged. "They have Alyssa… God! Those men…"
    The Sheriff looked seriously at him. "It’s not what you think." Their eyes locked. "In a way, I’m afraid it’s worse."
    "What the hell are you talking about?"
    Pod refilled their tumblers with bourbon. "I said she’ll be safe, temporarily. You met Pastor Spohr?"
    Ryan nodded hesitantly.
    "Hmm. Visit the church? I guess from your face that you did."
    He was no fool, this hick law officer. Ryan swallowed and looked away, out the window. It was beginning to rain, heavy drops pattering against the panes. He was thinking of the rows of townspeople, heads outstretched, those things writhing in their throats like humming wires.
    "We did," he said finally. "Spohr was all over her. He wants her! Why does he want her?" As he bolted to his feet, anger boiling over, the package of papers in his waistband promptly dropped out and fell to the carpet with a thump. Pod casually snagged the bundle off the floor and placed it on the table. Removing the wound string, he unfolded the bundle. A large triangular piece was missing from the back page. Pod went on speaking as if nothing had happened.
    "Pastor Spohr entertains certain… beliefs. My friend will explain, when he arrives. Good God—where did you get this?" He’d opened the papers and was looking inside.
    Ryan saw little point in lying now. "I stole it from an antique chest of drawers in Waard’s church," he admitted. "But Spohr didn’t see—I’m sure of it!" He saw no reason to mention the antique’s potential value, and then damned himself for thinking of money when Lys’ life was in danger.
    The Sheriff tipped the parchment forward, and a small, rounded object slid onto the table, striking the wood with a click. It was star-shaped, five worn points extending from around a circular depression at the center. The artifact was made of some greenish, striated stone that Ryan did not recognize.
    "Do you know what that is?" Pod asked. "Don’t touch it."
    Ryan pulled his finger back. The stone had an odd, soapy texture. It had been wrapped up in the papers the whole time, and he’d never known. "I have no idea," he said honestly.
    At that moment, the door burst open, and a yellow-slickered figure came stalking into Pod’s modest cabin, shedding rivulets of water onto thick planked floor.
    The Sheriff leaned back in his rocker. "Ryan Blake, this is Professor John Thayle, from the university in Boulder. He’s the man we’ve been waiting for."
    Stripping off his raingear, the spare, lanky figure darted to the table and snatched up the greenish star-stone, turning it over in his hands. He practically ignored the other two men.
    "Astonishing! Quite complete—oh, look at this…" The Professor’s attention shifted to the parchment. Pushing aside the star, his spidery fingers teased the sheets of aged paper apart. They opened in his hands, perhaps a dozen pages, thickly covered with cramped, close-set script. "Good Lord, Pod, why didn’t you tell me about this?" He looked accusingly at the Sheriff, who spread his hands.
    "Only just saw it myself. Mr. Blake came across it in Waard’s church."
    Ryan stepped into the man’s field of view as he pored over the parchment. "What are we doing to help Alyssa?" he demanded.
    The Professor looked up from the brown, curling pages, then turned to Pod. "What have you told him?" he asked the Sheriff bluntly.
    "Not much."
    Thayle sighed. "Very well." He steepled his fingers together. "Your girlfriend… Alyssa? She will be safe, at least for a short time." Ryan started to interrupt, but the Professor cut him off. "You’ll have to trust me—this is not the first time we’ve dealt with such situations."
    His manner was not totally reassuring, but Ryan realized that there was little choice—he could do nothing alone, and these two men seemed to offer his best chance of getting Lys back safely. Pod had saved his life once already.
    "Okay," he said hesitantly. "Go on."
    "Did anyone else see these objects besides yourself?" The Professor placed the stone atop the worn pages like a paperweight.
    "Definitely not."
    Thayle seemed relieved. "You were in the church… tell me, what was your immediate impression of Pastor Spohr?"
    Ryan couldn’t repress a shiver. "I could barely stand to be near him."
    The Professor pressed. "Maybe something stronger?"
    "All right—I hated him! He was so horrible and sly and old… and strong. Like he could snap your neck with one hand."
    Pod and Thayle exchanged glances.
    "The people in Waard—they’re a… cult or something, aren’t they?"
    "Not quite. Ryan, have you ever considered the possibility that the earth has been visited by alien life forms?"
    "Who hasn’t?"
    "Listen to me… millions of years ago, this entire mountain range lay beneath the waters of an ancient ocean. That period of our earth’s infancy saw visitations by horrors beyond simple imagining; races from outside our solar system, things from beyond 3-dimensional space-time…" The Professor tapped his fingernail against the surface of the green star-stone. "You’re familiar with the tale of the coelacanth? Imagine a far more flexible and adaptive organism, one capable of surviving the transition of geologic epochs not only intact, but alive. Don’t look at me that way! I can take you to a colonial grove of aspen not fifty miles from here—standing for a thousand years or more. There are lichens in the Arctic far older… the Tree of Life in the desert of Bahrain, the Spreading Oak outside Atlanta; precedents, Mr. Blake!"
    Thayle leaned forward intensely. "The people of Waard uncovered just such a creature a year or so after they opened the mine on Bald Hill. Their deepest borings would have reached below the ancient aquatic table by then—probably they found traces of organic matter, and thought there might be oil or coal… instead, they found… It."
    He paused. "Since that time, the townspeople have undergone a type of… forced gene-manipulation. You have already seen the end product of this process."
    "Spohr…"
    "Yes."
    Ryan looked down at the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, drained it. "You’re telling me that man’s an alien?"
    "No. But the Pastor is no longer exactly human. Neither is his congregation." Thayle gestured. "Show him."
    Pod stood and left the cabin, returning a moment later with something wrapped in a stained oilskin. He placed this bulky package on the table and pulled away the wrapping. There was a faint reek of formaldehyde.
    "Jumped me when I was pokin’ around the emergency shaft on Bald Hill," Pod whispered. "Crushed it with my Mag-Lite."
    Floating in the bath of yellowish liquid was a spiny creature straight out of nightmare; with its lobstery-spidery shell, serrated claws, faceted eyes, and barbed, whiplash tail, the thing embodied the fear of all that was stinging and poisonous in one ugly package. Shreds of flesh protruded from where the chitinous carapace had been shattered by the Sheriff’s flashlight. Just looking at it made Ryan’s flesh crawl.
    The professor smiled grimly as Pod rewrapped the jar and put it aside. "I see by your face that this is not totally unfamiliar. The things living inside the people of Waard are quite similar… you saw them?" Both men were gazing closely at him.
    Ryan felt sick. "I saw them."
    The other two relaxed visibly.
    "It is good that you are able to admit it," said the Professor. "Stan and I ran in circles for almost two years without speaking directly." He wiped his face on one sleeve. "I have much to do, and little time."
    Helped by liberal doses of whiskey, they slowly calmed Ryan into a fitful doze. "He needs the sleep," commented the Professor, poring over the faded parchments. Pod had spent some time peeking over his friend’s shoulder, but the illustrations and woodcuts made him feel as if things were burrowing under his skin, and he busied himself with other details of their adventure. Thayle rubbed wearily at his eyes as Pod stalked about, gathering various piles of gear, rope, knapsacks, explosives and the like. "Amazing that the boy should stumble over precisely what we need at this moment. This journal, and the star-stone, were purposely hidden. The text is in English, German, bastardized Latin, and a good deal of cabalistic code…" He translated aloud;
    "…N’kai in the lower shaft were fed last week, yet grow large again. The equinox is near upon us, and He shows a great restlessness. Workers have reinforced the restraining walls to a thickness of several feet, but I fear it will not stop His fury for but a moment…"
    "That don’t sound encouragin’," said Pod.
    "Listen to this." The Professor skipped ahead a page. ‘Last week I myself undertook Confirmation, receiving a sacrament of His own flesh and blood… The seed will be spread, and when His message is come, the sower will reap the whirlwind…" Thayle cleared his throat. "There’s more code, then this… ‘When the harvest of flesh is gathered, and the locks and seals are sundered, He will rise from His dead, watery home… proclaim His godhead, and cast himself on the winds of the world made His plaything…’"
    Thayle paled. "Jesus, Pod, it’s worse than I could have imagined. This explains everything we’ve seen up to now—these shelled creatures, the area’s disappearances… and if it does get loose… Imagine a huge cloud of airborne particles released into the jet stream above the Rocky Mountains; traveling through the upper atmosphere, it could cross the Atlantic to Europe…"
    "I don’t get it."
    "This thing… I’m not certain of its nature, though the manuscript gives some clues. It seems to be a colonial organism, perhaps more plant than animal—rather like lichen or fungi, though of no variety we know. Fungi reproduce by means of airborne spores."
    "I think I follow you. But what’s kept it in the mine all this time?"
    "Not the people of Waard. The journal mentions locks and seals, barriers…" The Professor fingered the greenish star-stone thoughtfully. The manuscript was damnably vague on its function, but the stone seemed to play a part in the mechanism binding the thing there in the mine. "And It has not been idle—the thing awaits some event or moment which will release it completely."
    "And the town’s trying to let it out? So it can… breed itself?"
    "I think so."
    Half-vegetable, half-animal, sentient with ageless evil—preserved, imprisoned for countless ages, then at last uncovered by the hapless miners of Waard. God! Thayle tried to imagine that first meeting; the hard-bitten men toiling in the dark, breaking through to a subterranean chamber and the seething heart of that ancient evil… A sort of communication established, an agreement worked out—someone had managed to partially circumvent the thing’s bonds, enough to make it capable of exerting a local influence. Probably the… Shhaboath had pointed the miners to nearby veins of silver, creating the town’s rush of prosperity in the mid-1800’s.
    "You have to stop it!"
    The two men looked up to see Ryan swaying over them, blanket clutched around his neck. Pod leapt to his feet and steadied him.
    "Easy! We’ll save your girlfriend, don’t worry." The Sheriff eased Ryan back into the chair, protesting half-drunkenly.
    "I’ll do whatever you say!" he slurred.
    "I believe he will," said Pod, when Ryan was asleep again.
    The Professor looked up from the journal; firelight danced in the lenses of his glasses.
    "Not much else he can do, is there?"
    They made the necessary preparations.

When they left Stan’s house, the moon had set, though it was still hours before dawn. They took the Professor’s Volvo up the road behind Bald Hill, Pod leaning into the curves as Thayle briefed Ryan on their plan, such as it was. After a half-hour’s ride over the winding roads, Pod pulled the car over to the shoulder and shut off the engine.
    "We’re directly behind the cut that conceals the mine," he said. "We can position ourselves at the top of the hill."
    Piled into the back of the station wagon were heaps of gear; ropes and climbing rigs, hardhats with attached headlamps, a powerful set of mobile radios, a crate of dynamite and assorted blasting equipment. From Pod’s knapsack protruded the worn stock of a pump shotgun.
    Thayle smiled grimly. He’d told the sheriff to prepare for any contingency, and the practical-minded man had complied. Still, it was unlikely that any physical force they could summon would suffice to destroy the thing in the mine. The journal, or parts he’d been able to decipher, at least, had confirmed his worst suspicions regarding the nature of their adversary.
    Pod portioned out the gear, filling his own knapsack with the bulk of weaponry and explosives. The Professor shouldered his bundle as the Sheriff handed Ryan one of the radios and a police-issue stun gun.
    "Don’t use it unless you’re forced to," the sheriff said, as Ryan pocketed the stunner. Bald Hill was a granite-topped dome, fringed with a mantle of evergreens around its tumbled sides. The rain clouds had retreated to the edges of the horizon, revealing the starry deeps above. The skeletal band of the Milky Way split the middle of the sky like a galactic spinal column. Ryan looked up into the past, light scattered from stars millennia ago and light-years away. The winking lights seemed somehow cold and pitiless. He looked down at his feet and tried not to think of what could be happening to Lys.
    The eroded trail they followed was probably once a part of the mine operation itself. The Sheriff led the way, his flashlight beam a bobbing yellow circle just ahead of Ryan. The Professor and he were arguing over the details of their plan, Thayle bent over the manuscript with his light as he walked unheedingly along behind.
    "Part of their formulae matches the one in Prinn’s De Vermis Mysteriis," he was saying breathlessly. "Cribbed from Remigius, actually, but it’s undoubtedly the source the miners used. The book was banned, but English reprints appeared in the early 1800’s. Anyway, their ritual is an adapted version—they had to sort of make it up as they went, so to speak."
    "I don’t get it," hissed Pod, over his shoulder. "That… Shibboleth thing is real. How could they command it with some fake hoodoo?"
    "The power holding the Shhaboath is contained and focused by four stones, this one and three of its brothers." Thayle brandished the greenish star-shape in one hand. "The rituals serve to channel mental energies, to ready the psyche—the concentration required to undo the seals must be tremendous; more than one man probably died attempting the task." He paused. "Unfortunately, this formulae is incomplete; part of the last page was torn away."
    Behind him, Ryan swore softly in the dark.
    "I believe I can replace the seal into the pattern," Thayle continued. "At the very least I must try. But it requires another ritual, to rechannel the binding force of the stones. I’ve created one from various sources which I won’t name…"
    Pod stopped and turned around on the narrow trail. "Listen to me. You’re not going in there armed just with pig-Latin and cheap theatrics!"
    "Pod, it’ll work." He held up the stone. "This makes it possible—it’s like a complicated lock that you don’t quite understand… and this is the key."
    They went on in silence. Pod stalked ahead, scattergun held at port arms. They reached the tree line, where stunted and gnarled evergreens lay in tangled deadfalls below the crumbling granite. Beyond a jumbled slope of talus were the mounded tailings of a mineshaft. Rusted bits of metal lay about in heaps.
    "Stay sharp now," said Pod.
    The trail wound up past the junked machinery to where a gaping pit yawned blackly in the ground. To one side of the hole was attached a sort of circular iron cage, enclosing the rungs of a descending ladder. The sides of the shaft had partially fallen in, and bits of timber protruded from the sandy soil like bones wrenched from their sockets. Standing over the abyss, Ryan could feel a tug of wind currents sucking down into the darkness.
    Pod emptied his pack and began preparing the climbing gear. "This shaft was used for maintenance and ventilation," he explained. "Connects to the lowest levels—stepped; at 800 feet, there’ll be a horizontal passage, then another drop, and so on. The lowest section reaches 1500 feet or so. Radio probably won’t work that far down."
    Ryan looked dubiously at the rusted ladder, suddenly glad that the plan called for him to remain on the surface. As the Professor buckled on a climbing harness, Pod took Ryan aside to where the path continued around the south side of the slope. Past the hill’s bulging flank was a steep slope of shale bordering the front of the mine. Earth and stone had been scooped away from that side of the hill to form a processing area for the ore. The ruins of sluices and stumps of their terraced supports dotted the level space.
    Near the gaping entranceway was a hulk of machinery that had to be a winch for the lift. Above towered the gray face of Bald Hill, edged by its skeletal deadfalls of pines. The place had a brooding, haunted aspect.
    "Are you certain they’ll be bringing Lys here?" Ryan asked dubiously. "Yes," replied Pod, firmly. "Now don’t intervene—we’ll handle the Pastor and his cronies. The last thing they’ll be expecting is someone at the bottom of the shaft." Pod hefted the worn shotgun meaningfully. "I plan to put a hurtin’ on them monsters, boy." He held up a reassuring hand. "Alyssa won’t be harmed in any way. Meanwhile, the Professor hoodoos that Shibboleth, then we come back up in the lift, blow up the shaft, and go home." He said this with perfect reasonableness.
    Ryan swayed slightly. "All right," he said uncertainly.
    Pod clapped him on the shoulder. "Lys will be fine. Come on, I have sandwiches and a thermos of coffee in my pack. Then, show time."
    Ryan crouched in the scrub and boulders above the pit of the emergency shaft, listening intently. It was close to dawn, and the edges of the horizon were streaked with a ruddy light. Just before him, the rusted ladder dropped away into the dark. His windbreaker was soaked with dew, and the dregs of coffee in his cup were long cold. The radio in his hand hissed, and then suddenly Pod’s garbled twang cut through the white noise again.
    "…almost at the bottom. Prof. says the stone’s pulling him along like a magnet…" There was a flood of static, and Ryan pushed his arm down into the blackness, hoping to catch the least fading fragments of transmission refracted up from the bottom of that dark well. The crackle was replaced by Pod’s voice; "…queer electrical effect—like St. Elmo’s fire. Hope it won’t set off the stuff I’m carrying."
    Ryan glanced over to the bag Pod had left him to seal the shaft as a last resort. Inside was a thick bundle of dynamite wired to a battery. Attached was a circuit rigged with a simple throw switch—if he closed the loop, there would be a five second delay before the battery triggered the explosive.
    "…if you could see this! Like a wasp’s nest… larvae… thank God none of them stinger-things yet, but this is near to worse. John, leave it be!" There were unintelligible sounds in the background. "…a breeding factory, but empty. Ryan, if you can hear this, watch for lobsters…" The transmission faded again.
    As Ryan waited breathlessly for more, he heard the stumbling thump and whir of the diesel engine powering the hoist at the front of the mine. The noise redoubled as the engine caught with a roar, and Ryan jumped slightly. It had to be the kidnappers… According to Pod, it would take them roughly ten minutes to descend in the lift.
    Then there came a noise above the sound of the engine that sent him thoughtlessly racing along the trail towards the front of the mine, the radio forgotten. It was Lys, screaming; Ryan recognized her ragged voice, desperately calling for help.
    The trail passed in a blur of whiplash branches and ankle-turning stones. Even as he stumbled foolishly along to save her, Ryan could not help but admire his lover’s courage; seeing that Spohr intended to take her into the mine, Lys was making her last effort. The screams cut off, and he redoubled his efforts. After several minutes more, he reached the slope above the mine. Scanning the area, he spotted a pickup truck, probably the one he’d ridden in, parked near the entrance. The hoist rumbled on, unperturbed, feeding wire to the lift buried far below. There was no one in sight. Negotiating the rubble pile down to the level surface, Ryan stared about cautiously. The frame of the winch bulked above, the huge spool of cable unreeling smoothly. He stopped in the shadow of the machine. His palm was slick around the plastic grip of the stun gun, but he felt remarkably calm. Abruptly, the spool halted, and the whining gears spun slowly down to an idle. He waited for the winch to kick on again, but the spool remained motionless. Then, as he paced back and forth by the hoist, the ground trembled slightly. There was a sensation of something straining just outside the bounds of comprehension, as if a million grasping hands tore at the fabric of reality itself.
    His eyes caught a hint of motion just inside the mine entrance. The darkness there seemed to boil and tremble, suddenly releasing a liquid flood of surging motion—the scrambling forms of countless of those stinging, shelled things Pod called lobsters. Razor claws and mandibles clacking eagerly, the swarm scuttled forward. Ryan’s body was moving before his conscious mind had time to process the awful sight, carrying him back to the slope of rubble ringing the edge of the mine. His feet kicked gravel as he fought his way furiously back up the hill. Reaching the crest, he looked back to see the emerging swarm covering nearly the entire level space, and chitinous bodies lapping at the base of the ridge, clawing and leaping their way higher. They were gaining on him.
    Ryan sprinted back through the choked scrub to the hidden pit. He almost expected to find the emergency shaft seething with similar horrors, but the area was clear. Near the edge of the pit, the radio spat blobs of static mixed with frantic cries that made Ryan’s heart simultaneously leap and shudder with despair. The voice tearing through the white noise was not that of Pod or the Professor, but Alyssa, frantically calling his name.
    "Ryan, Ryan!… you must get away—blow the dynamite, while there’s still time…" Her voice rose above the babble of interference. In the background, Ryan heard booming reports, Pod’s shotgun. "For my sake, Ryan, get away, run for it, GO!" At this last scream, Ryan gave a despairing cry, and his hand slapped towards the bag of explosives.
    His fingers closed instead on the hardened carapace of one of the lobster-things. As its snapping claws arched back for his wrist, he tossed it away into the pit. From all around came the chitinous rattle of the thing’s brothers as they came toward him over the rocks. Rising to his knees, Ryan could see only the black, rustling tide of clacking pincers and poisoned stings coming at him. They were beyond counting.
    As his hand found the oblong shape of the dynamite and reached for the trigger, the creatures swarmed over him in a seething blanket. He screamed as serrated claws and lashing tendrils shredded his clothes and bit into flesh.
    At that moment, the earth groaned, and something like a shockwave came bursting from out of the ground, bathing Ryan in trembling waves of subsonic vibrations. The bodies of the lobster-things burst apart like rotten paper, covering him in rags and gray streamers of tissue. All about him, the things twitched and died, curling and fading under the assault of that force welling up from the earth. In moments, there was nothing left but piles of ash stirring in the breeze.
    Ryan lay still on the rocks, gasping for air. Inches from his face, the crumbled husk of a lobster lay like a molted chrysalis, empty of threat. The radio hiccupped, and then Pod’s voice cut in on the line. "Don’t touch that button, son. We’re coming up the lift. Your girlfriend is just fine."

Ryan had to put the back seat down, and even then, the chest of drawers barely fit in the rear of the Subaru. He wrestled with the graceful, arching legs, sliding the chest back over the blanket he’d laid down. Wrapping an extra layer of fabric over the precious, hideous finish, he saw, on the exposed underside of the skirting, the cabinetmaker’s brand. Ryan didn’t recognize the initials, but the date was 1654, a sweet confirmation of his instincts.
    A gaggle of children and a dog watched him work. Freed from the inhuman yoke of the Shhaboath, the town as a whole had experienced a sort of delayed shock. Those totally under the thing’s sway had died when Professor Thayle managed to seal the locks on the creature’s prison, but many had survived the death of the parasites implanted in their bodies.
    The town’s transformation was marked; the place seemed scrubbed of some indefinable blot or stain. The remaining families had refused to let Ryan pay for the chest, even after he’d told them its value. He looked over to the church, where empty frames ringed with shards of colored glass gaped like eyeless sockets. Someone had painstakingly shattered every mosaic window, and now the sun streamed through the gaps, illuminating the building’s interior. He couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry at the loss.
    The rear hatch closed neatly, with an inch to spare. Lys watched him from the driver’s seat, a half-smile on her face, hands folded over her belly. She’d come through the experience seemingly unharmed. Ryan marveled at her resiliency; even the buoyant Standish Pod had been subdued after the ordeal, and Thayle looked as if the effort had drained ten years of his life. Despite Ryan’s questioning, Pod had refused to discuss the details of Pastor Spohr’s final moments.
    "He didn’t go easy," the Sheriff muttered darkly.
    "It’s not over," the Professor had told Ryan afterward, as the rumbling echoes of the explosion shook Bald Hill, and plumes of dust gouted from the shaft openings. "Such a creature cannot be killed, at least not by us… and the locks won’t hold it forever. They only postpone the inevitable." It was enough for Ryan, and he’d said as much.
    "It’ll look awful in the living room." Lys’ comment broke through his rambling thoughts. Waving to the ragged gang of kids, Ryan climbed into the passenger seat, and she put the car in gear.
    "We’ll get a new living room."
    The scrap of paper torn off the back of the journal was in his pocket; he’d retrieved it from the secret drawer before packing up the chest. He pulled the piece out and unfurled it. On it were several lines of Latin, and a partial sentence in English.
    "…for He has grown sated on the flesh of the weak and the willing, and now must needs select from His flock a new breed…"
    At the bottom was a scrawled signature; Randolph Spohr.
    Ryan crumpled the scrap of parchment in his hand and fed it to the slipstream of air rushing outside the moving car. The tiny fragment was lost in the dust of their tumbling wake.

Copyright © 1999 C.B. Leonard. All Rights Reserved.